


Knees, pried open.

by seeking



Series: Stop-Motion Mind. [2]
Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Depression, Drugs, Drunk Sex, F/M, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Violence, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 09:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11102016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seeking/pseuds/seeking
Summary: "So, so pretty." he slurs the words deep down his throat. "Always so beautiful for us Even, don't be shy" and he knows every word so well.Dancing fingers, prying his knees open as if he is the only book their eyes have ever craved to gasp over.Red blotches stain the vast pale skin, stretched over his bones like a thin sheet. Yet his body is touched by all the wrong people, and this sheet cannot protect him from the intrusion.Their names stay in his throat, where they moaned and whispered it. As he lays still, sometimes enjoying it. Sometimes not.Day after day.





	Knees, pried open.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, so just as a forewarning, this may be an extremely triggering one-shot. So please do not read if it may trigger you, as it will go over very hard topics in detail (Rape, prostitution, etc). IMPORTANT: this one-shot is 100% connected to my other fanfiction called "I've Got Issues". I decided to write this as a backstory for Even, since that fic is written from Isak's point of view. If you read this one-shot then I would recommend reading my fic so it will make sense, or vice versa if you read my fic then read this so everything from the latest chapter will click.  
> Thankyou so much as always for reading, and please comment your thoughts.  
> (ALSO: this was not spellchecked or read over again so sorry if it is not good, it did not come out how I wanted it to but, eh?)  
> (also i will write more if people like this)

                                                                                                  ** _Even_**

* * *

 

"So, so pretty." he slurs the words deep down his throat. "Always so beautiful for us Even, don't be shy" and he knows every word so well.

Dancing fingers, prying his knees open as if he is the only book their eyes have ever craved to gasp over.

Red blotches stain the vast pale skin, stretched over his bones like a thin sheet. Yet his body is touched by all the wrong people, and this sheet cannot protect him from the intrusion.  
Their names stay in his throat, where they moaned and whispered it. As he lays still, sometimes enjoying it. Sometimes not.  
Day after day.

He is never asked how it feels because it never feels. At all. But he is so afraid to lose the race that all he can do is continue to dance his pale landscape beneath them, because he refuses to be alone.

So he won't be alone. Because it is not one human who drains him empty. It is many, as many as they want. As many men who want to take.  
Until he is empty.

So he allows himself to be told that he wants it, to be kissed with mutilating lies, and for other's bodies to be forced into his own. Suffocated.

He inhales sharply, his nose completely pressed against the stained bedsheet beneath him. The bed has seen many uses, night after night. He doesn't remember the exact sequence of events which led him to become what he now existed as. _A whore._ He knows himself as this, enough men have whispered it to him as their bodies are forced into his own. 

Deep grunting moans as they push and shove. " _You're quite the whore aren't you_?" a push. " _Yes, you take it so well. Beautifully well, just like a good whore_ " a shove. 

* * *

     He waits in the dimly lit room, several other young boys around him in a similar state. Clothes were strewn around the floor, used condoms and discarded waste. 

He became aware of his problem when he turned 15, he woke up one night, sweating and crying. Remembering the night his knees were pried open by another man when he passed out after a party with his friends.  

After that day all he can remember thinking of is the feeling of being touched, and being wanted. The constant craving for someone, anyone, to want him. To need him. So he found it in the only way he could. Walking up to an abandoned building one day after hearing of the insane parties that occurred nightly there. His tendency to be self-destructive showed at its worst in these times, when he couldn't stop his mind from screaming. He downed drinks and pills floated past his soft, swollen lips. 

"I want you" he would moan into their mouths. Yet, he never really wanted them. He just wanted the idea of them, the idea of having an infinite combination of ways to love someone. But his mind was so garbled that it didn't matter if it was someone. _Or anyone_.

So once the love stopped being love, it was out of his control. He kept coming back night after night, slipping away from his bedroom window after saying goodnight to his parents. It became a sick pattern, the need for the void within him to be filled with someone else's flesh. And then the immediate breakdown that followed. 

The nights of endless spinning thoughts and uncontrollable heart pulsing became too much. The pills stopped making him float above the pain of the tight fingers gripping his small hips. So he turned to anything he could wrap his fingers around, anything that felt real and concrete. Anything that could make him not. 

So the heroine followed. 

A man promised him drugs if he would sell his body, which he was far too used to doing. So it seemed easy, almost too easy. After the first press of the needle breaking through his sheet of vast pale skin, he could see the blood pooling. Yet it was beautiful, so, so exquisite because he couldn't taste their tongue on his lips anymore. He could no longer feel the tingling sensation where the pads of their fingers indented him, breaking his blood vessels.

Pretty needles, always there for him. Just like people, it never mattered what needle he used, or how often they changed. Because the same rushing pulse of nirvana coursed through him the same every time. His arms scarred with holes, wounding him. His arms showed the true battlefield his body had become. 

His parents never noticed, no one ever did. He stopped talking to others, or attempting to reaching out. His mouth couldn't form sentences unless they were broken moans or sighs. His limbs couldn't function unless they were pressing the sharp tip of his next high through his vein. 

* * *

     His foot taps restlessly against the cold linoleum floor, awaiting his next customer. It was such a strange concept to him, these people were here to _buy him._

He rubs his cold finger against the pock shaped scars running over his arms. He cringed beneath the touch, he had become extremely sensitive to other's touches in that area.

He knows he is no longer beautiful. He used to be. Tall, soft, blonde, his pale skin was smooth from head to toe, covered in stars. When his addiction began he could remember the feeling of knowing how badly men wanted him. Wanted to see him naked, stripped of everything he had known. 

And while the men's attitudes for him never changed, he still finds himself doubting whether they could truly want him. Weak, always waiting for the next needle. A salty tear slid down the scars as a man yanked him from his spot against the wall. 

Even pushes open his heavily-lidded eyes, black spots dancing. The withdrawal had never been this bad before, because he had always found a way to get to the drugs quickly and efficiently. But he hadn't sold himself for days. He hadn't wanted to. It never felt good anymore, he just wanted to make someone else feel good. Feel something. So he let them, and he never said no. No matter how badly the shame and guilt ate at him. Becuase love had become a sin. He was a human garbage bin, willing to accept endlessly. 

He laid limp, his body jerking up and down while the brooding man shoves and shoves. Never giving. 

_Rip me, rape me, suffocate my youth._

He only came to consciousness when he realized was throwing up, bile spilling from his beautiful, giving lips. A man moved over him, and Even flinched. Immediately expecting it to be another who would steal and leave. Even if he had been, he would not have protested, because that would make it rape. _And he never wanted it to be rape, he just wanted love._

So when the man with the soft brown eyes lifted him from the floor and took him to a soft couch, he was nearly startled by the lack of desperation. The existence of compassion had become unfamiliar. "My name is Harriot," he said gently, brushing the sweaty hair from Even's blindingly blue eyes. He was letting out small hushes, rocking Even although he was over 6' foot.  

"Did you know that every seven years every cell in our body is replaced" Harriot whispered. And Even could feel his tears dropping and dampening his bare skin. _Why is he crying? Is he hurt?_ Suddenly Even was sad, because this man didn't deserve to be sad. Only he deserved to be sad, because he could never satisfy anyone enough. He could never be empty enough to disappear. 

"Don't cry" Even croaked, using all his power to release the two simple words. 

But these only made Harriot cry harder, "So one day you will have a body that they never touched, one that you never gave up on" the man sobbed. His fingers ran over Even's exposed scars, and he flinched. He quickly pulled away from his sad strokes self-consciously, it had become a reflex.

* * *

     He found himself unable to grow close to people, his initial thought when meeting anyone knew was always "I am going to hurt you". And he would repeat it to himself like a silent oath, because that is the one thing he knew as true, and the one promise that would go unbroken. Because he only knew pain, and he swallowed it down like a drug. Because maybe heroine wasn't what he loved so much, nor sex, but the inevitable promise of pain which would surface from them. 

Because he was a monster. Yet they still saw him as the same, ignoring his scars, ignoring the fact that he never moaned, or yelled their names. 

Not all men were bad to him, he remembers one who just seemed plain sad. He would always whisper poems as he worked his eyes over Even. Soaking in his skin. 

" _The most important conversations you'll have are with your fingers_ " he licked a trail beneath Even's bellybutton, watching as his muscles contracted. 

" _Sometimes, the only reason I know I am alive is when your chest heaves, heavy and full of unspoken words. God, you are so beautiful._ " another push straight into Even. He wriggled and his knees wanted to desperately to clamp shut, yet this man treated him much better than many others. So they did not.

" _Come for me_ " his cock was abused, forced to perform on the daily. Even when it had no desire to release, it was forced. Hand after hand abused it until the milky liquid splashed out.\

* * *

 

     The hardest part was existing partially. 

To be broken and have to survive every waking moment as if he was whole. As if countless men hadn't stolen him piece by piece every night since he turned 15. He had become a concave shell, waiting for the seven years to pass as Harriot said so that maybe, just maybe, he could feel a little less empty. 

Because his body ached with every touch, _please don't touch me_.

Voices rummaged through every vein in his body and yet he couldn't even remember the first letter of at least half of their names. 

He was nameless, they were nameless. 

Consumer and product. 

 

 

 

 


End file.
